False Pretenses
by valele
Summary: AU. It's a tangle of complications. It's a mind game. It's false pretenses. It's Camp Rock. Smitchie.
1. Chapter 1

**False Pretenses  
S H A N E x M I T C H I E **

**a collaboration between:  
valele**

**DramaticStarlet**

**--**

chapter one

_written by valele_

"Mom, I don't want to go. Why are you making me?" I complained as I glared at my mother. She'd been depressed for the last couple of weeks because her show closed, and she couldn't do another because she'd gotten a cold during audition season and didn't try out for any shows. So the genius had gone out and gotten herself a job at Camp Rock, teaching musical theatre, and since I was just _so_ talented (insert rolling eyes here), I _had_ to go with her.

"Shane, come on! You _have_ to come with me; you'd just have _so_ much fun! And you could make some friends and all. You know how I _hate_ to see you all lonely and sitting at home, doing nothing all day," she said, turning on her actress charm.

"Why can't I just stay with Dad?" I asked. I realized immediately that that might not be a good idea. My dad isn't very responsible.

"I am _not_ leaving you with that irresponsible fool! What for? So he can take you out to parties with all his supermodel girlfriends?" I have to admit she has a point. I'm not much of a party guy, really. "Now, go on and start packing. We leave tomorrow first thing," she said, pushing me towards my room in our New York flat.

"What?" I exclaimed, surprised. "We leave tomorrow?"

"Yes, that's what I said. Now go pack!" I glared at her, but I went to my room and took out a suitcase and got started on packing. If I knew one thing, it's that it would take me a while to finish packing. I'm just too OCD.

After half an hour of folding and re-folding shirts and putting them into my suitcase carefully, my mom popped into my room. "How about some Chinese?" she asked, and I groaned.

"Not Chinese again," I said. "Here, finish packing for me, and I'll make us something."

She nodded and walked in, while I walked past her on my way to the kitchen. I did actually enjoy cooking, so I didn't mind doing this for her. This way, we didn't have to eat Chinese for the third night in a row. You get tired of it, trust me.

I went up to my room twenty minutes later. The spaghetti was almost done, and the salad just needed the dressing. I walked into my room, only to see my mom, holding about three shirts, and my suitcase, the clothes in it all crumpled up and not folded correctly. "I knew I shouldn't have asked you," I said calmly. My mom was like this, and you got used to it, so I just ignored it and folded everything up correctly. I love my mom, but the woman _cannot _fold a shirt to save her life.

"Sorry, Shane," she said, looking apologetic. The thing with my mom is that even if she's careless and scatterbrained, she always, _always_ feels bad. You can't hate her when she makes puppy-dog eyes at you.

"Don't worry about it, Mom," I said. "Why don't you go downstairs and set the table?"

"Sure thing, sweetie!" she exclaimed, all trace of regret gone.

--

The next day, I woke up to my alarm, bright and early, at six in the morning. I dragged myself to my mom's room, not looking forward to waking her. She wasn't pleasant at all in the morning.

And of course, she didn't set her alarm, which is why I'm glad I did. I walked into her room, only to find her bed empty and made, a packed suitcase on it, and the sun shining through the window. "Mom?" I called out.

"In here, honey," she called from the bathroom. I followed her voice there, and saw her dressed and putting her make-up on.

"How on Earth did you get up before me?" I asked.

"Well, I was just _so _excited, I couldn't sleep!" she exclaimed. I shook off the confusion and left the room, heading to the kitchen.

After making breakfast, I took a shower, while my mom called our driver and the concierge to get help with our suitcases. Or more accurately, my one suitcase and her five, huge ones.

"Mom, why are you bringing so much stuff?" I asked. "It's only four weeks!"

"Exactly," she said, barely paying attention to me. She was too busy overlooking the transporting of her suitcases into the car. We were standing on the sidewalk outside our building while the concierge and the driver put our things in the car. I felt bad they had to do it all by themselves, so I tried to help, but they told me not to worry.

"So what exactly am I doing at Camp Rock, anyway?" I asked, looking at my mom warily. I always felt like I had to watch her when we were outside or she'd walk straight into the New York traffic, and she probably would.

How did I end up as the responsible adult, anyway? It's a good question. My mom's always been like this, she's always needed someone to take care of her. Back when she and my dad were still married, he took care of her, but then he went through this mid-life crisis and started going out to parties and dong all these weird things. I was pretty young then, so I'm not quite clear on what happened, but I know my dad cheated on my mom.

A shriek brought me back to reality. My mom was standing impossibly close to the street, looking down at something, I don't know what. I walked over to her, and saw what she had shrieked for. Somehow, her sunglasses had ended up in a puddle on the street, and of course, my mother, the eternal drama queen, had to scream about it.

"Mom, they're just sunglasses," I said, and she gasped at me.

"They are _not_ just sunglasses, they're very expensive Chanel sunglasses!" she exclaimed.

"Mom, you've got like twenty pairs," I told her. "You'll live."

She scowled at me, but she knew I was right. We got in the car, and just like that, we were off to Camp Rock.

**--**

**I think it sucks! Yay for me!**

**(Katie's Note: It does not suck. She needs to stop saying that! Leave nice reviews and inform her that it most definitely does not suck. Okay? Okay!)**


	2. Chapter 2

chapter two

chapter two

_written by DramaticStarlet_

"_Popstar Mitchie Torres needs to clean up her act! Teen queen Torres' label has threatened to drop her if she doesn't get back to the old days and drop the diva drama! But can the Disney darling return to her roots?"_

"Ugh, whatever. True Hollywood Records would be nothing without me," I rolled my eyes as I turned off HotTunes TV.

Beside me, my agent raised her eyebrows quizzically. "Mitchie, I think we need to talk."

"About?" I huffed expectantly.

"Well, Mitchie, I'm gonna give it to you straight."

"As opposed to curved?"

Her eyes narrowed, and I backed off a little. My agent (Tina) looks scary when she's irritated. When she was my mom's agent, she would sometimes give Mom the look, and I would be in the room, and I'd run out because the look scared me so much.

"Look, Mitchie. Your mother is my best friend, and you're like my daughter, but I'm pretty damn sick of this little teen 'tude you're giving everyone," Tina hissed.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" I gave her my best, 'You're not gonna win' smirk.

"You're going to Camp Rock," she smiled evilly.

...excuse me?

"I'M WHAT?!"

"You're going to Camp Rock, sweetheart."

My eyes bugged in shock, and my heart stuttered in my chest. In front of me, Tina looked rather amused at my pain. Stupid Tina.

"Okay, NO. I'm Mitchie Torres for crying out loud!" I ranted, crossing my arms.

"Yeah, and you're RUINING your image! The label's serious about dropping you if you have one more temper tantrum," Tina said. "You need to get away, and what better place to go then Camp Rock, where it all started?"

Anger coursed through my veins, and I could feel a serious migraine coming on.

"You WON'T get away with this. My mom wouldn't make me go!" I protested hotly.

"She already agreed. It's a done deal, babycakes. _You're _going to Camp Rock for four weeks," Tina smiled that evil smile again.

"I am not!" Tears filled my eyes. Lesson one in being a diva: _Always _be over-dramatic.

"Already worked it out with your Uncle Brown. You're teaching a vocal class."

"I'm going to hate it!"

"You can hate it if you want, or even better, you can love it, but it makes no difference to me. Your parents and I are only doing this because we love you. We want to see the old Mitchie again," Tina's smile became less evil, and more genuine.

I screamed loudly and stormed out of my room, and my bangle bracelets (imported from Bangladesh) and earrings rattling.

As I walked, Tina called out, "You're leaving tomorrow! Start packing!"

This only made me scream again and slam my door shut.

One word.

**Revenge.**

--

I laid on my bed and wallowed (because what else was I going to go?) for a few hours (I'm Mitchie Torres, I'm allowed to do it, okay?) before finally starting to pack.

My closet is pretty much...HUGE. So when I go places, it's hard for me to decide what to pack and what to leave. I didn't want to wear any of the stupid pop princess clothing the label forces me to wear (gag me), but it's the only stuff I had at the moment.

See, that's the thing about True Hollywood Records.

They signed me when I was like fourteen or something. And I was just so ecstatic that I got signed that I let them force all of this cookie cutter pop music on me (even though it's not really my thing). They've told me how to act, how to dress, how to sing, even what to say when people ask who my influences are. I'm beyond sick of it, but there's nothing I can do about it, unless I want my record deal to disappear.

"God, these are ugly," I said as I fingered a pink shirt with a crown emblazoned onto the front.

Instead of continuing to ponder how horrendous my wardrobe was (and is), I moved over to my computer and pulled up my pictures.

I scrolled through until I reached a folder that said **CAMP ROCK '06 **on it.

I smiled at a thirteen – almost fourteen – year old self, and thought of the people surrounding me. At the time, I'd known all of their names. At the moment, I could hardly remember any of them.

Of course there were Nate Black and Jason White, who I'd known for years. Apparently they're still attending camp, even though Jason _has _to be at least nineteen by now. Nate's my age – in fact, he had a crush on me during my first year at Camp Rock, when we were both eleven.

Then Tess Tyler. Basically, all you need to know about her is that she's an evil bitch who's jealous of me, and everyone knows it – I'm not bragging, it's just the truth. Oh, and her mom is TJ Tyler, who's won like 480975867 Grammys. But not as many as my mom Conchetta (Connie) Torres, because my mom's voice is ten times better and less produced.

Caitlyn Gellar, the girl who had her arm around me, was my best friend when I was younger. We met during our first years and were best friends for four years, but once I got really popular, she started ignoring me. She just randomly stopped talking to me about a year ago. That's the thing about the music biz – you never know who your real friends are.

There were some other random people that I vaguely remembered. Barron James, Sander Loya, Lola Scott. Tess's clones, Peggy Warburton and Ella Shang. Seriously, I never thought it was possible to say the word "TOTALLY!" twelve times in one sentence until I met Peggy and Ella.

Although I hadn't spoken to most of the people in years, I felt sort of sad when I looked at the pictures. Caitlyn and I holding up silly peace signs, Nate and Jason playing guitar and making funny faces at the camera. A single tear gathered in the corner of my eye before I swiped it away.

Mitchie Torres doesn't cry, okay?

So instead of crying, I quickly clicked out of the pictures and started to pack, in an attempt to forget my summers at Camp Rock.

In case you're wondering, it didn't work.


	3. Chapter 3

chapter 3

chapter 3

_written by valele_

My mom's suitcases are _anything_ but light, and even though I already knew that, I was pleasantly reminded of it when I was assigned the job of carrying her suitcases into her cabin. Luckily, the people in charge of assigning cabins liked me – meaning they weren't making me stay with my mom. I was immensely thankful for that.

I was walking backwards, dragging the last suitcase in the car, when I felt someone run into me. I dropped my mom's suitcase and turned, apologizing profusely, to see a girl about my age lying on the floor, her purse, cell phone, and whatever else she'd been carrying on the floor beside her. "I'm so sorry," I said, holding my hand out to help her up.

"Watch where you're going, idiot," she said, scowling at me. If I'd ever thought she was pretty, I took it back the second I saw her scowl. I hadn't seen anyone look that mean since… Well, I hadn't seen anyone look that mean in a while.

"No need to get defensive, you know?" I said. "I just didn't see you there."

She stood up slowly, and glared at me. "Whatever, nitwit." Once she was standing up, I realized how familiar she looked, but I didn't dwell on it when I heard her insult.

"Nitwit? I haven't been called that since the fourth grade," I replied, smiling widely at her.

"Get away from me," she said, still glaring.

"If you want to get away from me so badly, why don't you just leave? No one's forcing you to stay, you know?" I didn't stop smiling as I said this, quite entertained by the whole situation.

Instead of answering, she scowled one last time and walked away. Man, whoever she was, she was implacable. Watching her walk away brought back the feeling I knew her from somewhere, and as it did, I cursed under my breath. It was going to be bugging me for the rest of the day now.

Picking up the suitcase I'd put on the floor to help the girl up, I went back to carrying my mom's suitcases into her room. Once I was done, I headed to my own cabin, planning on putting my things away and then going to the open mic there was tonight. I sure as hell wasn't performing, but I could just enjoy the other performances.

I walked into my cabin and started on unpacking when two guys walked in. One of them was talking animatedly while a curly-haired guy tried to get him to stop talking, failing miserably. However, they both stopped talking when they saw me in their room.

"Hey, I'm Shane," I said.

"Hi, Shane! I'm Jason!" the first guy said, waving excitedly.

"Hey, man, I'm Nate," the curly-haired guy said.

An awkward silence took over. "So I guess we're all going to be sharing a cabin," I said, trying to fill it.

"I guess," Nate said. "Unless we just throw Jason out and keep it to ourselves." He finished his sentence smiling, and said smile grew even bigger when Jason realized what Nate had said, and exclaimed an offended, "Hey!"

Grabbing my guitar case, I put it next to my bed. Nate saw this, and he said: "You play guitar?"

"Yeah, it's one of my hobbies," I said, shrugging. "I'm not that good."

"What kind of guitar do you have?" he asked.

Carefully, I removed the guitar case and took out my guitar. This was my most precious possession, and I could tell Nate would've agreed as his eyes widened in admiration when he saw it.

"That's a vintage Gibson!" he exclaimed. "A '68 J-45, right?"

I nodded. "What do you have?"

"Well, my acoustic is an Elvis Presley Dove and my electric is a Fender Stratocaster," he said.

"I have two Gibsons, three Martins, and a vintage Fender Stratocaster. Oh, and I'm getting a Taylor soon," Jason said nonchalantly.

"You play, too?" I asked, surprised. Somehow, I hadn't expected Jason to be a guitarist.

"You kidding?" Nate answered. "Jason here's the best guitar player to ever come to Camp Rock."

"Nuh-uh! Really?" Jason asked excitedly. "I'm the best?"

"Uh, yeah, dude, I've never seen anyone with such mad skills," Nate told him.

"Cool!" Jason said. "We should play together sometime."

"I'm not really that good," I said. "I'll watch you guys play, though."

"C'mon, man, I'm sure you're underestimating yourself." Nate smiled at me.

"No, thanks. But hey, are you guys playing at that open mic tonight?" I subtly tried to change the subject, and surprisingly, it worked. With Jason, at least.

"We want to but we can't because we need a singer," he said.

"Neither of you sing?" Needless to say, I was surprised. I'd been expecting them to be amazing singers/guitarists/any possible instrument.

"Nate does, but he thinks he's really bad so he won't sing by himself." Nate smacked Jason as he said this.

"Dude, shut up," he told him. "And don't change the subject, Shane. I'm almost one-hundred percent positive you don't suck."

"Well, okay, then. I have an idea," I stated.

"Ooh, I love ideas!" exclaimed Jason.

I looked at him strangely, deciding not to say anything about it. "Anyway, I'll play with you guys if Nate will sing with me."

"Deal!" Jason jumped up and shook hands with me immediately.

"Don't I get a say in this?" Nate asked. Jason and I both shook our heads.

"Sorry, dude," I said.

"Okay, I guess," Nate said feebly, getting his guitar from under his bed. Jason went to the closet to get his, and the three of us sat down with our guitars on the chairs we had in our cabin.

**--**

**Katie, your turn now!**


End file.
